


Instrumental Bliss

by DoctorLennon007



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Deja Vu, Gen, Guitars, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorLennon007/pseuds/DoctorLennon007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old/modern Paul McCartney goes instrument shopping on a day off from his tour in Ohio. He finds the perfect guitar - but why is the witty Liverpudlian behind the counter so familiar? Well-edited!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instrumental Bliss

I don't own Paul McCartney (though I wish I did) or Eddie Cochran's "Twenty Flight Rock." Or any of the other recording artists mentioned, or Les Paul. Thank you and have a good night.

A/N: If you're reading "Beatles in a Beetle," don't worry, it's still going! I just had this idea for a oneshot and simply had to write it. Enjoy!

 

It was a dreary day in C-, Ohio. A frigid breeze gusted down the nearly deserted street, whisking brown, dead leaves from gnarled, naked branches. The few people on the road pulled up their collars and hurried down the sidewalk, heads down. A crow flew overhead, prophesying rain with his lonesome caw. Grey clouds hung drearily in the sky. It was exactly the sort of day on which nothing spectacular could possibly happen.

One man ducked into the empty doorway of a boarded-up shop to escape the wind. He was an older man, as evidenced by his lined face and hands, but he walked with a spring in his step like a much younger man. His rather long hair was dyed light brown. He pulled a map out of the pocket of his inconspicuous black coat and took off his sunglasses to read it. Sunglasses were a rather odd choice for such a dreary day, but he had different reasons for wearing them.

He frowned and scratched his head, leaning closer to the map to try to read it.

"That can't be right," he muttered to himself. "I swear I was near this street . . . ."

He quickly poked his head out of the alcove to look for a street sign, glancing up and down the street. No one noticed him. Thank God, he thought. If they recognize me I'm never going to find this place.

He ran a calloused finger along the map until he finally pinpointed his location.

"There we go!" he murmured. He folded up the map and shoved it back into his pocket. He replaced his sunglasses and braved the wind once again.

The man's name was Paul McCartney, and he was on tour. Well, on a day off from being on tour. After his concert here last night, one of the stagehands had mentioned that the city had a fun musical instrument store.

"Specializing in rock and roll, of course," she had said, staring at him in starstruck awe. "And they sell some oldies records as well."

"Thanks," he'd smiled at her and watched her melt with slight amusement.

And so he'd decided to go find this store today. As he strode down the road, he wondered if that had been a bad decision; his fingers and toes were freezing.

He rounded the corner onto the small street the music store was supposedly on. And there it was, its neon yellow Instrumental Bliss sign flickering over a display window containing a several guitars.

Paul hurried across the street and yanked open the shop's glass door, which was to the left of the display. A bell tinkled as he stepped into the store. Warmth washed over him as he looked around the shop.

It was an odd mixture of second-hand record shop and instrument store. The front of the shop was devoted to records; the waist-high record shelves reminded Paul fondly of NEMS. In the back of the shop, all sorts of instruments rested on floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves. Guitars were definitely the most popular item, though. Larger instruments – two drum kits and an upright piano – resided in one corner of the back of the shop. The wooden counter was behind the display window to Paul's left; the man behind it was reading a newspaper, obscuring his face. Paul was the only other person in the shop.

Paul started off by browsing through the records. The young stagehand had been right when she'd said oldies; everything predated the eighties. And these weren't all just badly scratched Neil Diamond and Peter, Paul, and Mary albums either – Paul's eyes widened when he came across a rare Buddy Holly 45 nestled in between a battered Billie Holliday single and a misfiled reissue of "Spirit in the Sky."

The former Beatle was getting stuffy in his coat, so he unzipped it, revealing the plain, white button-down shirt tucked into his jeans. Hands in his pockets, he ambled into the back of the shop to examine the instruments.

Paul started with the unusual instruments. This aisle was filled with everything from pan pipes to xylophones. He was able to get through here fairly quickly, using sheer force of will to stop himself from looking too closely at the surprisingly expansive ukulele collection.

The rest of the aisles were filled with guitars. They were highly variable in quality and not organized in any clear pattern. An acoustic with a fretboard that looked like it had been chewed by a large dog reclined next to a gorgeous rosewood Les Paul in the last aisle. A gorgeous, left-handed, custom-made rosewood Les Paul. A gorgeous, left-handed, custom-made, $5,569.59 rosewood Les Paul. Shit, thought Paul. I have to buy that guitar.

He remembered the conversation he'd had with Nancy on the phone that morning.

"I'm going to go to a musical instrument store this afternoon," he had said.

"That sounds fun!" Nancy had replied. "Just don't buy anything over a thousand pounds, okay?"

"Whatever you say," Paul had replied with a grin.

Paul stared at the beautiful guitar. He reached out and ran a finger along its side, following the smooth curve of the polished wood.

I'll just try it out, he told himself. If it doesn't sound any good, then problem solved.

With one last glance back at the guitar, Paul marched back to the front of the shop to the counter. He stood in front of the wooden desk rather awkwardly and cleared his throat.

The man behind the counter flipped a page in his newspaper.

"Excuse me?" said Paul.

The man flipped down the top half of his newspaper and pushed his horn-rimmed bifocals up his nose. He looked at Paul with piercing brown eyes.

"What's up?" asked the man in a Scouse accent quite like Paul's.

"You're from Liverpool!" exclaimed Paul. The man was about his age, with short white hair and a rather flat nose. His hands, still grasping the newspaper, had tell-tale guitar player's callouses, and he was wearing a faded Elvis t-shirt. He looked strangely familiar to Paul, like a character from a dream or a childhood friend.

"Only if you're not from Manchester," deadpanned the man.

Paul smirked, "I'm from Liverpool as well, actually."

"What a pleasure to have a fellow countryman in my shop!" exclaimed the man in a falsetto whine, humorously standing up and giving Paul a little bow. "Actually, it's a pleasure to have anyone in my shop on a day like this," he added in his normal voice.

"It's a gear shop," said Paul. "You've got some great records here."

"Why thank you," said the man, still looking at Paul very intensely as he set his paper down on the desk. "I'm assuming you didn't come up here just to praise everything, though?"

"No, actually, you've got a marvelous lefty Les Paul in the back. I was wondering if I could try it out?"

"Sure," said the man, walking around his desk and off through the record shelves. "Come 'ed."

Paul followed the shopkeeper through to the guitar.

"So, do you own this place, then?" Paul asked.

"Yeah, have done since '85," said the man.

"Wow, that's impressive. Did you start the shop?"

"Nah, I bought it off the old bloke who owned it before me. He was ill or something and had to get rid of it."

They reached the place where the exquisite Les Paul lay undisturbed. The man took the guitar carefully off its shelf.

"The amps are round the corner here by the drums and the piano," said the owner, leading Paul to the back corner of the shop. "Go on, pick any amp you like and give her a spin." He handed Paul the guitar, which the former Beatle held gently but firmly, like he was holding a baby.

He pulled the stool behind the nearest set of drums over to a Vox amp and plugged in. His fingers seemed to fit on the guitar perfectly as he began to tune it. The rich sound of the first note was like chocolate. As he continued to play, he closed his eyes, letting the dark, warm notes envelop him. Once the guitar was in tune, it sounded even more magnificent.

He started playing "Twenty Flight Rock" by Eddie Cochran.

"Well, I've got a girl with a record machine," he sang.

"When it comes to rockin' she's the queen

"We love to dance on a Saturday night

"All alone, I can hold her tight

"But she lives on the twentieth floor uptown

"The elevator's broken down

"So I walked one, two flight, three flight, four

"Five, six, seven flight, eight flight more

"Up on the twelfth I started to drag

"Fifteenth floor I'm ready to sag

"Get to the top, I'm too tired to rock."

Paul stopped playing. The last note resonated faintly into the distance.

"What d'you think?" asked the shopkeeper. Paul had almost forgotten he was there.

"It's perfect," said Paul resignedly.

"And why's that not perfect?" asked the man, obviously detecting the note of equivocation in Paul's tone.

"It's about four thousand dollars more than the wife'll let me spend," replied Paul.

"So?" asked the man. "Just write her a song on it, then she'll forgive you."

Paul laughed. "Alright then. Looks like you've sold me a guitar."

They returned to the counter by the display window, getting a cheap case for Paul's new guitar on the way.

"That'll be one thousand dollars," said the man as he resumed his place behind the cash register.

Paul frowned. "No, it's not, it's five thousand."

The man winked. "Let's just say I'm grateful to meet someone who doesn't have a funny accent or drive on the wrong side of the road."

"Thanks, mate!" said Paul, handing the man his credit card. The owner swiped the card and printed out the receipts. Paul signed the store copy and handed it back to the man.

"Thank you kindly," said the man, putting the receipt in a drawer.

The odd sense of the man's familiarity continued to plague Paul.

"Have I met you before?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Anything's possible," replied the man. "We did grow up in Liverpool around the same time."

"'Spose so," said Paul. "Fate, eh?"

"Pretty small fete with only two people," said the man.

Paul laughed. "Well, ta, then."

"Ta," replied the man. "Enjoy the guitar."

Paul zipped back up his coat as he walked back out the door. The bell tinkled behind him as he ventured back into the blustering wind. The dark clouds looked even more ominous than they had before.

Paul jogged back across the street, his guitar case in one hand. He rounded the corner and continued back the way he had come.

"Fate . . . fete," he chuckled to himself as he passed the alcove in which he had looked at the map earlier. Then, he frowned.

Fete, he thought. Why did he think of a fete?

Suddenly, a crazy idea hit him. That odd familiarity . . . "Twenty Flight Rock" . . . a chance meeting at a fete . . . .

Paul glanced back over his shoulder, even though he was by now ten minutes away from the shop. Snap out of it, Paul, he scolded himself. That's impossible.

Still, the wild, insane part of him said, you should at least go back and have another look. It can't hurt, can it?

You're going senile, aren't you? the sensible part of him despaired.

Paul had just resolved to go back and have a quick look, just to satisfy the newly awoken conspiracy theorist inside of him that the owner was just a normal person, when the clouds gave in to the inevitable. A single drop of rain hit the guitar case with a thunk. Paul looked up at the sky.

Rain began to pour out of the sky in great sheets of water. Paul ducked back into the doorway of the boarded-up shop, worried for the safety of his guitar in its flimsy, cheap case.

He set down his guitar case and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Hey, d'you think you can send a car to come pick me up? . . . Yeah, I just got caught in the rain. . . . Yeah, I'm fine, just don't want to walk back. Serves me right for choosing to hoof it for exercise. . . . I'll just be going straight back to the hotel. . . . When's our flight to Denver? . . . Okay, I'll be ready at six. Bye."

 

A/N: As you can see, more serious than my usual comedies, but really fun to write! Tell me what you think of it!


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